It cried aloud that eternity was
very long, and like a great palace without a quiet room.
"Gorgeous is the glory," it sang; "white are the garments, and
lovely are the faces of the holy; they look upon me gently and
sweetly, but pitifully, for they know that I am alone--yet not
alone, for I love. Oh, rather a thousand-fold let me love and be
alone, than be content and joyous with them all, free of this
pang which tells me of a bliss yet more complete, fulfilling the
gladness of heaven!"
All the time Joseph knew nothing of where his soul was; for he
thought Mary was in the shop, and beyond the hearing of his
pleader. Nor was this exactly the shape the thing took to the
consciousness of the musician. He seemed to himself to be
standing alone in a starry and moonlit night, among roses, and
sweet-peas, and apple-blossoms--for the soul cares little for the
seasons, and will make its own month out of many. On the bough of
an apple-tree, in the fair moonlight, sat a nightingale, swaying
to and fro like one mad with the wine of his own music, singing
as if he wanted to break his heart and have done, for the delight
was too much for mortal creature to endure. And the song of the
bird grew the prayer of a man in the brain and heart of the
musician, and thence burst, through the open fountain of the
violin, and worked what it could work, in the world of forces.
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